


Anniversary

by ussgallifrey221b



Series: To Build a Home [16]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anniversary, F/M, Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Parenthood, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 12:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey221b/pseuds/ussgallifrey221b
Summary: It's kind of funny; the passage of time. So much changes and yet, nothing really changes at all.





	Anniversary

When he was trudging up the stairs to the apartment, all he could really focus on was the thought of falling into bed with you. The shower could wait, even the physical act of removing his blood-stained and fight-ripped clothes could wait. Bucky wanted to curl into your sleeping body, smell the lingering scent of shampoo in your hair and wrap an arm around you - to reassure himself of many things. 

God, he's fucking tired.

The mission went on longer than expected; they always do. Two weeks, almost three, tracking down and subduing a trafficking ring in Thailand with Sam and Wanda. It worked, albeit in a roundabout way, and he all but ran to the garage at the compound when they landed. Took the bike Steve had given him before he time-hopped back to a new life with Peggy. And now here he is.

Bruised and broken and in desperate need of a shower, but he chose to forgo all that just to see you.

There's no light from under the door, must be in bed already. He doesn't even know what time it is. When he left the compound upstate is was already after midnight. Resting his forehead against the blue front door, the chipped paint around the doorknob and bottom right corner that always gets kicked closed. Bucky pictures you, wrapped up in the grey sheets of the bed, a purple throw blanket probably tossed over you as well. Maybe a pillow you're curled up into in place of a boyfriend.

Moving at a ridiculously slow pace, careful of his movements as he grips the keys to keep them from jingling and waking you. And he pushes the door open with a careful touch. 

The bright light of the tv casts the room in strange shadows. You're in the middle of the couch, throw blanket wrapped around your shoulders (and covering the top of your head), with your knees up as you watch the screen intently.

His senses fill with the sweet scent of baking. Not the usual candle or fabric spray. But something sweet and familiar that makes his mouth water. Maybe it's been a little too long in between meals. Missions tend to do that.

Without thinking, he kicks the door closed with a gentle push of his boot and drops his duffle bag to the floor. 

"Jesus Christ!" You shriek, grabbing the Glock from the coffee table and aiming at him, instinctively. 

With his hands raised up, he sways into view, "Hey, sweetheart."

You lower the gun with a sigh of relief. Dropping it down on the table as you lean back against the cushions, "Fucking hell, baby. You can't…" you scramble for words as your heart rate slows, "_ Fuck. _ Scared the shit out of me. I thought we had a rule about sneaking in?"

Bucky chuckles as he plops down next to you, brushing the purple blanket to the side as he reaches out to touch you. Clamping a hand down on your thigh, rubbing the fabric of your galaxy print leggings. 

" 'm sorry, sweetheart. Didn't think you'd be up. Wanted to crawl into bed with you."

You turn, eyeing the hand moving dangerously higher and higher on your leg, before meeting his gaze. You take a deep breath and shake your head, "It's okay. Jesus, sorry. Heart attack's over. You okay?"

Reaching up to cup his face and the rough stubble of his beard, you scrutinize the bruise around his left eye and the cut across his nose with interest.

He turns in your hold to kiss your palm, slowly and deliberately. "I'm good. What about you?"

You drag your hand away, letting your fingertips linger in his beard before cupping the small bump of your stomach. "We're good."

How strange is that? God, it still makes him pause. Freeze up in the middle of the day at the realization that you've moved from singular to plural nouns. And you sure as hell aren't referring to the white kitten snoozing next to you. Fuck. His mind is still reeling after almost two months. But he sucks up his fear for later contemplation.

Nods, kisses your cheek and forces a smile, "Good."

He's sure you know how nervous this all makes him. There's a lot to be worried about with a baby, but one with his serum? Terrified doesn't begin to cover it.

But what the hell is he talking about? You probably have your own set of worries and fears going on, being the one who is actually physically carrying a baby and all.

Dropping his head down onto your shoulder, you snuggle against him as he eyes the tv.

"The hell are you watching?"

"British panel shows," you shrug, listening to an older man struggle to say something about the Acropolis where the Parthenon is, he's only half-listening, to be honest.

When you say nothing more, focus apparently glued to the segment for the moment, he shifts against you. And then he feels the lingering exhaustion creeping up in his bones. Pulling his head from your shoulder, his fingers grip down on your leg.

"What're you doing up, baby?"

"Hmm? Oh," you smile over at him, face a bit contorted by the tv light being the only source currently illuminating the room. "Slept all day, basically. Baby and all."

"Right, yeah," he drifts off. Recalling the general exhaustion you'd been feeling the last few months.

You hum contentedly, reaching down to place your hand over his. "Oh, sorry. Scatterbrained, here. Do you want cookies?"

That grabs his attention, "Is that what I smelled?"

"Mhmm," you pull a clear Tupperware container from the other side of you and present it to him.

Right under his nose is a handful of small chocolate chip cookies. He eyes you suspiciously before grabbing one and examining it in his hand. "Why do I get the feeling there was more than this?"

You gawk at his playful smirk, snatching the container away to your secret hiding spot. "Rude."

Grabbing one for yourself, you shove it all the way into your mouth and lick the grease from your fingers.

"So, morning sickness?" He presses, curious about the sudden appetite change. When he left, you were all but surviving on Saltine crackers and chicken broth.

"Hmm?" You're quick to swallow the last of your treat. "Oh, yeah. Gone. Like a week ago. Must be some serum helping things out in there. I'm not complaining though."

He chokes on the cookie. You slap his back.

When he's able to breathe again, you give him a look.

"Thought we talked about this. I want _ this _ . I want this with _ you _," You pull your hands free from the throw and grapple to bring his hands to yours. "Don't stay in your head about this stuff. We're fine. Me and baby. Promise."

You surge forward to press your lips against his. And Jesus, he hadn't even kissed you yet. Was too wrapped up in actually being home again that just being next to you was enough. But now his brain kicks into gear with everything firing at the sensation and taste of your lips against his.

God, you're amazing.

You pull back with a gentle smile before grabbing another cookie from the container, feet propped up on the coffee table as you return to your show.

Bucky wants to laugh, but he's lost in his head. And not about the baby; not this time. But you. His beacon in the storm. His anchor and light and every damn analogy you can think of. Oh my god, you're wearing his shirt too. He's gonna fucking lose it.

Glancing down at the half-eaten cookie in his hand, he muses, "You made these?"

"Yeah," you screw your face up with an indignant stare. Then you pull back, "Well, I mean, they're prepackaged. I just preheat an oven and throw them on a sheet. I'm no Martha Stewart, honey. Don't have the patience for it. Or ability."

His face screws up at the unfamiliar name. Yet another modern reference he probably has yet to grasp. "_ Who _?"

You stare, then laugh like he's done something adorable. "Nevermind. Let's just say I haven't gotten a recipe to work right yet. They're either hard as a rock or pancake in size and flatness. Until then, prepackaged it is!"

Triumphantly smiling, you pull yet another cookie out to eat. He had a feeling he'll be buying quite a few packs of these for the coming weeks.

Smiling affectionately at your comfy look, he goes to finish off his piece before ultimately holding it out for you to shove all the way into your mouth. He laughs as you lick the bits of melted chocolate from his fingers. 

You sit it comfortable silence for a minute, the musings of the panel show a fuzzy distraction for the heavy exhaustion logging his brain. Bucky drapes his right arm over your shoulders and tugs you closer to his side, glimpses your yawn out of his peripheral.

"My ma used to have this recipe, but she threw butterscotch in there. Was only for special occasions - rations and all. But I still dream about those cookies sometimes."

You smile as he reminisces. Poking his side after a moment, hesitant with your thoughts, "I wish I could have met her."

He straightens a bit, imagines the scenario in his head. Pictures her wrapping you up in a tight hug and telling him not to mess this up because you're just too good for him. 

"She would've liked you," he whispers, lost in the false memory. With a shake of his head, he regains his focus on you. "She was a great cook."

"Well, I hate to break it to you. But you better know this now, baby: I'm no Mrs. Barnes. Especially when it comes to baking," you laugh with a little shake of your head.

"You could be," he finds himself saying without his brain really thinking it through. It just slips out like a breath.

Pulling yourself from his embrace, letting his hand fall to his lap, "What? A good baker? Maybe, I'm sure I'll have the time now - "

He stops you with a hand on your knee, "_ No _. That - that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you - "

"Marry me?"

You pull back, eyes wide in the electric glow of light from the television across the room. Backing up right into Alpine who snarls and hops off the couch.

"I - " you helplessly gape at him.

And god, he could have done this better. Candles and flowers, a nice restaurant, the top of the Empire State building. Anything with some real thought to it. Hell, he didn't even have a ring. He's not even on his knee. Should he be? Oh, he's really fucking this up right now. 

Your hand stills the waves in his mind.

You speak slowly as if you're still processing the whole situation. "James _Buchanan_ **_Barnes_**. Is this _seriously_ how you're proposing to me?"

"Yes?" He squawks despite his best intentions. 

Nodding thoughtfully, tilting your head side to side as you contemplate the proposal. He panics.

"It's not just because of the baby!" He rushes to explain. Now that his brain's caught up to the situation, he's trying not to kick himself for how stupid he was with something so important. 

You smirk, cup his face and slow him down. "I didn't think it was. Just so you know."

You peck his lips. Lean back, smile as he still sits there frozen in place.

"Oh, and in case it wasn't clear. The answer was _ yes _."

His brows raise and his mouth dries, "Oh."

Nodding, smiling, toying with him.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

He surges forward, knocking you onto your back as he kisses you. Propping himself up so as not to crush your stomach, his tongue traces your lips and begs to deepen the kiss.

"You're amazing," he says between kisses and pecks and touches that become more and more passionate. 

"Amazing enough to be your wife?" You playfully challenge with a glint in your eyes as you pull his bottom lip with your teeth.

He bobs his head above you, letting his hair fall around you both. "Hell yes," he mutters before surging back down to kiss your warm pink lips.

* * *

Unable to sleep, you drag your exhausted bodies down to the Municipal Building and anxiously wait outside the Marriage License office before it opens just after eight. You fill out all the paperwork with stupid grins and excited glee dripping off you both. Bucky has to spend a good fifteen minutes convincing the assistant that _ yes _ , _ he was born in 1917. No, I swear on my Ma's grave! _ Before they finally accept the previously thought fake ID.

And as soon as you swear that everything is accurately filled out to the best of your knowledge, you're handed the certificate. Given thirty days to be legally married by an ordained person or justice of the peace. And as soon as you leave the office, Bucky has you pinned up against the wall to mercilessly kiss you.

When you're standing on the steps of the main entrance, taking in the morning traffic and warm spring air, he kisses you once more - albeit slower and more gently than he had just a few minutes prior.

There's this look in his eyes. Sky blue and swimming with emotion as he brushes your hair back behind your ear. "Head home, baby. Got something I need to do."

You laugh at the notion, "Cold feet already?"

He takes a step back, smiles with a shake of his head before looking back at you. Grabbing your hand with a gentle squeeze, "_ No. _ Definitely not. But… I think I should probably get my fiance a ring."

Oh, and isn't that a fun new word. _ Fiance _. You are Bucky Barnes' fiance. And he's yours. Holy shit this is really happening.

"Okay, nothing fancy though. We have more important things to worry about than a ring," you point warningly.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he draws you in for one last kiss. "God, I love you."

"So much you could marry me?" You playfully tease, but your eyes are bright and your smile is wide.

He barks a laugh. Taking in the almost angelic glow of the April sun that halos around your body as you gaze at him with every ounce of love and affection that a person can give. His voice catches in his throat, "Something like that."

* * *

You're married a week and a half later at the courthouse. You're wearing that blue A-line dress that had been in the back of your closet since the company Christmas party two years prior. He's got his hair tied back in a bun and he's left just a bit of stubble at your request. And when you pictured a wedding for yourself, it was always with your future husband in the full penguin suit. But here he is in dark-wash jeans, a rolled-up dress shirt, and a plain grey vest. And it's perfect. 

All traditional notions of not seeing the bride before the wedding and general bridal and groom parties are kind of tossed right out the front door. You apply your makeup right next to him in the bathroom as he brushes his hair into a bun. He helps you zip up the back of your dress and you perfectly roll his shirt sleeves up. 

And then you just stand there, in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at each other. The reflection a symbol of your future. Blushes and nervous - but excited - smiles as he takes your hand in his. The next time you walk through the front door, it'll be as husband and wife. 

Bucky looks down, rubs his thumb along your bare ring finger, "Still sure?"

You squeeze his hand, force him to meet your gaze. He can see the tint of red rimming your eyes as you nod eagerly. Lips pursed tight to keep the tears back.

Then there's your poor old mom. Standing there in her lilac dress looking like her heart is breaking. And you hadn't even told her about the baby yet. One heart attack at a time, right?

She almost didn't show. But, despite her trepidation and personal feelings on the fact that you were getting married after a week-long engagement and just over a year of dating, she ultimately decided to not miss her daughter's wedding. Flying out after a night of inner contemplation, Bucky met her at the airport and they apparently had a nice long talk that he still won't disclose the details of. 

Going out to breakfast the next day together, and though it was a bit awkward at first, she did seem to warm up to him a little more and more. And clearly how much you two were wrapped around each other helped as well. That lovesick look in your eyes and the need to hold and touch and entwine yourselves together.

She brings you a simple bouquet and a small boutonniere for her soon-to-be son-in-law at the courthouse. White spray roses and bits of lavender with a hint of baby's breath. And when you tell her that you don't need them, she waves her hand and insists that you take them anyway. She even clips the boutonniere on Bucky's vest, smoothing out the lines with careful fingers. Something unspoken between a shared look that you're not privy to.

Steve's there. Looking equally confused but still happy. When he did his time jump back, he got a second chance for himself. It's only fair that his best friend gets the same. It's what he really wanted for Bucky after all, he just didn't expect it to happen so soon. 

You're, admittedly, a little star-struck when you meet him outside the courtroom. Standing before a living legend, about to marry his best friend. And you know he didn't die in the Battle - Bucky wasn't dumb enough to keep that information from you. But there's Steve _ fucking _ Rogers, not looking a day over forty-five, attending _ your _wedding. A tiny sprinkle of gray at the ends of his hair, a wrinkle or two at the corner of his eyes. It makes you pause, taking in your husband-to-be. Wondering what he'll look like as he ages. If he's going to outlive you with that serum still running through his veins.

After filling out the final license application, with your new name signed and the witness signatures as well, you're ushered into the room. The ceremony is simple and by the book. The judge is a kindly man, who seems to be taking personal pride in having two superheroes in his courtroom.

When you get to the rings, Bucky pulls a simple band from his pocket.

_ Tungsten carbide _, he tells you later. It won't scratch or bend or tarnish. You don't need the flash of a diamond to show your love. This right here? It kind of says it all about your relationship, doesn't it? 

When it comes time for his ring, Steve hands you a chain with a matching, larger ring on it. Which you then proceed to place over Bucky's head, carefully adjusting it to rest just over his sternum. And when the judge gave you both a kind of curious look, Bucky just waggled the fingers of his vibranium hand in explanation. 

And then that's it. By the State of New York, you're officially pronounced as man and wife. Kissing your husband is a lot like kissing your fiance and your boyfriend had been, but there's something more there. You're both stupid giddy and smiling and holding back tears, but there's something else. Something heavier that settles in your chest. Encases your heart. And it feels _ right. _

* * *

The kids had been sweet today. Homemade cards and paper flowers. An offer to make dinner, but you tactfully declined the boxed macaroni and cheese Gabe had produced. 

They didn't really get it. It wasn't like the holidays where _ they _ got something. And it wasn't like your birthday when there was a cake. But you two were just kind of disgusting today, kissing and saying _ I love you _ more than usual. They knew it was important to you guys, but for them? It was just mom and dad being _ weird _.

At least they're in bed a little earlier today. Monday's the only free weekday night that doesn't have a sports practice or club meeting going on, thankfully. And the first day back in school usually leads to them being a little more exhausted than usual. 

So, here you stand in your quiet kitchen. Eyeing the timer on the microwave going down in blocky neon green numbers. You can hear muffled sounds from the living room where Bucky is relaxing.

Before it can beep, you have the second mug out and on the counter. A scoop of vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of chocolate syrup for each.

As you pad into the living room, Bucky doesn't even seem to acknowledge you, which is a little odd considering how wrapped up in each other you've been today. Only when you offer him the seafoam green mug does he look up with a smile.

"What's this?"

"Commemorative reconstruction," you say lightly, sitting down next to him and curling into his side.

He eyes the contents of the mug, still warm from the microwave. Looking over at you suspiciously, you merely dip your spoon into the melting ice cream and lick it clean, challenging him with a stare of your own.

"What're you watching?"

"Huh?" He looks from you to his phone, then smiles to himself. "Oh, _ nothing _."

Holding the phone up, you see yourself - albeit ten years younger - in a royal blue dress, on the verge of happy tears in a beige courtroom. Video paused right as a ring is being placed on your finger.

"You're still watching that old thing?" you laugh as you go in for another bite of dessert.

He nods, locks the screen and puts it face down on the armrest, "Seemed appropriate."

Steve had offered, on that day ten years ago, to film it. When you had both shared an unsure look, he explained how much he and Peggy. would have loved to watch their wedding again. But all they had were photos, faded black and white ones now. _ Trust me, you'll want it when you're older. _

And when your first anniversary came around - before you went on that date night, you _ were _ grateful you could watch it back. It's basically become an anniversary staple at this point. Though Bucky does watch it from time to time still; when he's feeling sentimental.

Resting the mug on his thigh, he drapes his right arm over your shoulder. Clinks the spoon against the side of the mug, trying to reveal the contents under the ice cream.

You watch him for a moment before nudging his leg with your knee, "Relax, you big baby. It's just a mug cookie."

"Seriously?" He squints at the mug then at you.

You nod, "What, you think I've magically gained the ability to make real cookies overnight?"

He laughs, finally scooping down into the melted ice cream and cookie mixture. "You didn't want, what was it? Tollhouse?"

You gag around the spoon, "That's a forbidden food in this house and you damn well know it!"

Laughing, remembering how you craved those cookies through your first pregnancy. And how you haven't been able to touch one since without feeling sick. Bucky concedes, holding his hands up in surrender.

You sit comfortably, laughter dying down as you both dig into the surprisingly appetizing treat. And then you drop a hand onto his thigh like you've got something of the utmost importance to say.

"What else was there? Oh, yeah!"

You grab the remote and flick through the way too many streaming services before landing on one that makes him groan. The familiar intro music plays for the panel show.

Batting your lashes innocently, "Just trying to recreate the memories."

Sullenly stabbing his spoon into the mushy contents of his mug, Bucky grumbles, "Could've left that one out."

"Hey! Keep it up and I'll give you those matching bruises you walked in with too!"

He laughs, despite himself, "God, where did I come back from?"

Smiling around your spoon, licking the gooey chocolate from the handle, "You never said, I don't think. Too wrapped up in the moment, you know?"

"Yeah," Bucky grins, recalling the whole proposal with near clarity.

Placing your half-empty mug down on the side table, you rest back against the cushions. "Think there's just one thing missing though."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

When you don't answer, he turns to look at you. Mouth falling open as you rub your belly.

"Sweetheart…?"

You play into it, smiling with a heavenly glow as you relax, "Wouldn't it be incredible if I was - "

"Baby…" he warns, eyes wide in terror.

"Oh, _ Bucky _," you purr, putting all your effort into it. "Don't you think just one more - "

He all but begs now, "_ Doll _, please tell me you're -"

"Messing with your big dumb head? Yeah, yeah I am."

He collapses back against the cushions with a shuddering breath. You calmly move his mug to the coffee table and settle into his lap. His hands hold you steady, gripping the small of your back as you lean over him.

"Aren't you glad you married me?" You coo, eyes bright and smile wide.

He groans, for effect, before smiling back up at you. He surges up to capture your lips in a warm, sweet kiss.

"Despite the panic attack you just gave me - yeah, I am."

You giggle, moving down to curl into him. Your head resting on his left shoulder. After a moment, you muse, "God, can you imagine if I really was - "

"Don't even joke about it, baby. I don't think I can handle another midnight call to my therapist."

You concede, snuggling in closer, "Yeah, yeah. Don't want to mess with your fragile old man body."

For that, he pinches your ass and gathers you up with a surprised squeal from your lips.

"Come here, you - !" Bucky's quick to maneuver you down onto the couch, lording over you as he attacks your mouth with his own.

In hindsight, that was oddly destined. Winifred Natalia Barnes was born exactly eight months later.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgallifreyfics.tumblr.com).


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